"Madame?" said he.
And as he saw it, the woman's face and form became vaguely familiar. He had seen her somewhere. But in the last few years he had seen thousands of women.
"You have had a great misfortune, monsieur?"
"That is true, madame."
She sat on the bench beside him.
"Vous pleurez. You must have loved him very much."
It was not a stranger speaking to him. Otherwise, he would have risen and, as politely as anguished nerves allowed, would have told her to go to the devil. She made no intrusion on his grief. Her voice fell with familiar comfort on his ear. He was vaguely conscious of her right to offer sympathy. He regarded her, grateful but perplexed.
"You don't recognize me? Enfin, why should you?" She shrugged her shoulders. "We only met for a few hours many years ago--here in Avignon--but we were good friends."
Then Andrew drew a deep breath and turned swiftly round on the bench and shot out both his hands.
"Mon Dieu! Elodie!"